


Crumble

by savaged



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, a barely existent relationship's problems, and lots of angst, spacing out Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savaged/pseuds/savaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You never know how sick you are until you try to recover."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumble

"So do we do this or not?"

He runs his fingers through the fancy texture of the cinnamon colored blankets and snaps back to the speaking man in front of him.

"What?"

Mario drops his hands to his sides. "You gotta be kidding me, I drove around three hundred kilometers for you. Marco, were you listening?"

"Uh-" The blonde digs his nails into his scalp trying to tidy his hair, the streaks shimmer a special shade of silver under the heavy light. Across the room, the view of a city that is his and not Mario's shines through a tinted window, and he can guess their silhouettes on the reflection.

They stand awkwardly against each other, enough to consider their personal space bubbles collided, enough that Marco focuses too much on Mario's wrinkled eyes again. He nods, dumbed and quiet, and his chapped lips open as his pink tongue sweeps through.

"I was thinking about… Maybe you could also stay. After, you know-"

Mario shoves him against the bathroom door and Marco closes his eyes shut and covers himself with his arms, struck dumb by the sudden push. There's immediate regret and concern printed on Mario's face, which doesn't replace the sourness and softness of the kiss he presses onto the side of Marco's lips.

Marco relaxes. For a time that he isn't lucky enough to have every night, or week, or month, but a hug is enough when it comes to missing him. He opens his eyes again and he has Mario's forehead on him, the shorter man burying his face on the crook of his neck and untying the precariously made knot of his thin black tie. He's breathing sharply, and Marco can't feel a single thing. He has already learned. He has already suffered. The low blows that imply their wrecked relationship can no longer surpass his thick core. Not even the good stuff -like, Mario's small hands and Mario's short nails scratching his back, the whispers, his never fading afterglow smile,- can dig anything out of him.

And he reckons, in the middle of a trail towards his south of lips wetting warm skin, that the only thing left is pure indifference, and underneath it- Well, there's _rage_ coming undone, everywhere. And coming. Of course.

There's a small gasp, Mario taking air and looking up, already on his knees and panting with that stupid smirk that defines a dystopia like the sweetest of dreamlands, and Marco grimaces and pushes Götze's head back out of the way. "Get up."

The idiotic smile fades. "What?" No response. Mario gets up, knees wobbly, and fixes Marco's undone collar. "Did I do anything wrong?"

Marco pushes him. Mario pushes back, but his wrists get grabbed and he's guided (half shrieking, half rubbing his wrists) inside the hotel room's bathroom under Marco's effortless drag. He's shoved against the glass sink and spasms, and Marco forces him to face the mirror while he stands behind him.

"I'm sorry." Mario's eyebrows meet. "I'm sorry. Marco, please."

The light blonde head approaches his and Marco places his lips on Mario's ear shell, almost, hovers there. "You're sorry for what?"

"I don't know."

It hurts to hear it like a confession, like he truly doesn't know what he's done to Marco, like he's guilt-free of letting all go, leaving all behind, shatter whatever they were or this was. He shakes his head ignoring the complicated thread of thoughts, and undoes the front of Mario's tight jeans from behind, pushes the small footballer against the sink until he's gasping from uncomfortableness and ignores his plea when he strokes him, loose and slow around him, like the way the daily distance grows between the two.

" _Enough_. Marco," he tries to turn around but is trapped. "God, just take me."

"It's really frustrating, isn't it?"

Mario winces and furrows his brow ready to mouth a 'what?' when his- he doesn't know what to call Marco,- pulls his hair so the back of his head rests on Marco's shoulder, and his whole back is pressed against the calm, warm chest and belly of the paler german. He also feels cold fingers meet the dimples of his ass, tugging down his underwear and loose jeans, and in some seconds he's bare backed and shaking, hitting the glass sink with his thighs and he feels _little_.

Marco's breath trembles and hitches against his cheek, "this is all you wanted from me," he speaks as he caresses the insides of his thighs. He can feel himself -and Marco,- get embarrassedly hard and confused, "does everybody else knows?"

"Know what, Marco?" Fingers circle him and menace to get inside him, Mario closes his eyes and melts into his eyes, his reddened lips open wet and glimmering. Two fingers enter him in an only thrust, knuckle-deep, and arching and moving inside him like they know already exactly what to find and where, in a whole physical and emotional level.

"Does it ever occur to you that I don't want any of this," Marco's ragged voice violates his overly sensitive, hyperactive mind and he moans in response (because he doesn't find the correct words for an answer to such question,) and Marco fucks him fast and short with his fingers, like he's become a machine of some sort, some raw material object. And _has he turned him into that?_ And _does he know he's coming even while Marco speaks those concepts out loud?_

"Are you listening? You drove around three hundred kilometers for this" Mario swallows sharply and stays very quiet when Marco takes his fingers out. He knows what comes next. He loves every single second of it, every small tear and friction, every one of Marco's whines.

But Marco's grits his teeth and holds his breath. So the only thing he feels coming from Marco's the clench of his jaw against his cheek, the tightened grip of his hands on his hips, and the pleasure, the _pressure_ , the pain.

Marco doesn't even sigh, doesn't say a word, doesn't smile. He doesn't care about Mario's groans, encouraging small phrases, superficial stuttering that ends in a weak attempt of getting Marco to talk, to moan, to even _look at him_.

And he comes.

Marco's hands don't hold him; he bends over the sink and puts his forehead on the mirror, his short pants fogging up the glass and the sweat on his forehead sliding through. The bent over man gazes at the person behind him on the reflection in a complete state of blissful chaos, until he releases and spills all of him inside Mario, and stays one minute more to get soft.

He puts his hands on Mario again, on the agitated upside-down movement of his shoulders. The hairs on his neck are damp, a nice blush spreads through his chubby cheeks. Marco looks directly into his eyes.

"I _loved_ you. But this isn't just _us_ , anymore."

"Like, do you want me to come back? That's impossible-" Mario's words come out loud, fast, crashing onto each other. They fade into thin air. "Because if this isn't what you want then I don't know what it is- I don't know what I've done to you, but I'm _sorry_ , Marco, I am."

Marco sweeps his glance through Mario, from head to toe. He looks pathetic. He looks blurred, even when the fog on the mirror's no longer there.

"I think I became used to not seeing you. You just don't fit around here anymore."

"Are you serious? Marco, we still-"

" _You_ still. You still what?"

"I still want this. I still want _you_." 

**Author's Note:**

> and I was all like "i will never EVER write götzeus EVER". so here have something you guys. did you like it?


End file.
